


Shot in the Dark

by verdreht



Category: Justified
Genre: M/M, Raylan Is Likewise A Badass, Seriously Messed Up Stuff, This Is Why Raylan Hates Harlan, Tim Is A Badass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verdreht/pseuds/verdreht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Raylan knew Harlan had some sick people. Rapists, dealers, psychopaths...you name it, Harlan probably had it in kind. But with Tim missing, it seems like a bad time to find out that it gets worse than even Raylan could've imagined</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Depictions of torture and just generally sick people. Lots of violence. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of this.

A figure sat perched on the edge of an embankment in the deep black of the night, the woods around him and his dark clothes nearly obscuring him from sight. A pair of binoculars held to his eyes looked out to a clearing below.

In the center of the clearing stood a single house. Shutters hung askew, old siding was fading or missing, and tarps covered patches of the roof. Had it not been for the dull light showing through the filthy glass, he might've thought the place was abandoned. Only, he knew better. He'd been camping out there for the past three days, intermittently; he knew when they would be there, when they would leave, and who drove what P.O.S. truck.

There were five of them that he'd counted. All family, all presumably part of this semi-cult they had going. 'Cause hell, what else could five guys be doing in an isolated cabin in the middle of the woods in Kentucky?

On second thought, he didn't care to think on that one. Deliverance was a weird enough movie without adding the element of incest.

Shaking his head a little, frowning as drops of the rain that had been falling for the past few hours scattered from his dark blond hair. The weather forecast had said it was just the start of things to come…three more days of rain, it said. Not that he put much stock in the weatherman.

With any luck, he would be out of there before then, anyhow. He was there trying to find a perp that the boss man had set him on. He'd seen the guy's rap sheet…killed some people, cut them up. Always with the same Bowie knife. Since it wasn't good having a guy like that running around, they needed someone to do the recon, and since he was the one with the sniper experience, that was him.

The problem was, he hadn't seen the guy. He wasn't one of the five, but he'd been told that this was the last place he'd been seen. Since then, he hadn't showed up at the motel he was hiding out in, he hadn't checked in with his parole officer.

So, they'd sent him, and there he was, watching for any sign of some guy that he'd only seen in a mug shot in a manila folder that had been unceremoniously dumped on his desk. Not that he was complaining; it was his role, and if this was where he was needed, then this was where he would be.

In the rain.

And the cold.

With a cramping back and sleeping legs.

Well, the last, at least, he could do something about.

Just as he was about to sit up, though, something caught his eye. Headlights, down the flattened grass and gravel that passed for the only road into this place. Immediately, he focused his binoculars on it, hoping to catch sight of whoever it was.

He recognized the car. It belonged to one of the younger men, one of the only ones that ever seemed to leave this weird little shack. He watched as it came to a stop amidst the rusty bear traps and rusted farming and hunting equipment, heard the engines die.

Both doors opened…two people had left. That was right; he'd seen them both go a few hours ago. They both went around to the back of the old Bronco, and the head- and single taillight giving him just enough light to see what was going on without switching to night mode.

There was a thud as the bigger of the two opened the back and let the tailgate down with a rusty squeal that even he could hear from where he sat watching. He couldn't precisely see what it was they were getting out of the back just yet – the truck was facing him, but it looked like they were having a bit of trouble with it. He heard one of them swear.

And then he found out that it…wasn't an "it" at all.

It was a "her."

It was a girl they were hauling out of the back of the truck, and one look at the bag over her head and the way she struggled was more than enough to tell that she was not there by choice. That was when a muffled sort of sound hit his ears…she'd been gagged, it sounded like. It got louder as she struggled, but she couldn't get away.

When one of the guys put a knife to her throat, he couldn't watch any longer. The sniper rifle lying under the tarp beside him on the ground came around to replace the binoculars. He didn't even have to adjust it; years in the army had taught him out to set up and shoot with what he had.

And shoot he did. One shot. Bang. Drop.

The one holding the woman hit the ground. Just as he was lining up the shot for the other one, though, the woman stepped into his line of fire. The guy grabbed her, and he used her as a shield, backing her way into the house.

He watched as the front door opened, showing two more of the men he'd seen. They hauled the woman in, and there was nothing he could do.

He needed to get down there. He had his firearm…he'd call for backup. He couldn't just leave her in there, though.

Without even bothering to pack up or grab his rifle – he wouldn't be able to use it at that range, and he had his sidearm – he scrambled to his feet. The embankment was too high to jump; he would have to go around and run down.

He turned, hand going to his holster…

Just in time to see the butt of the shotgun smash into his face.


	2. Chapter 2

Raylan awoke to the sound of sharp buzzing. He paused for a second, still half-asleep and not quite sure what the  _hell_  that noise was. As consciousness returned to him, though, he realized that the buzzing was his phone, and if he didn't hurry up and answer it, he'd end up having to fish it out from between his bed and the bedside table.

Throwing out a hand, he felt around for a second until he felt the plastic beneath his fingers. A glance at the lit-up screen revealed two things that annoyed Raylan greatly: it was one in the damn morning, and it was  _Art_  calling.

"Art, this better be good," he grumbled.

_"Raylan, you're gonna want to come down to the office."_

The statement wasn't particularly telling, but there was something in Art's tone that had Raylan sitting up in the bed, swinging his legs over the side as he started to stand. "What's happened?"

He was ready for Art to say something bad. The way he'd sounded, he didn't know if a deputy had died or some mega-crook had broken out. He was ready for anything.

_"It's Tim…we can't get a hold of him."_

Except, maybe, for that.

Less than twenty minutes later, Raylan was walking off the elevator into the office. He had no tie, and his shirt wasn't buttoned more than two, three buttons – signs of the hurry he'd been in to get down there.

Art was waiting for him in the bull pen when he got in. "Rachel's on her way," he said.

"You hear anything from Tim?"

Art shook his head, and Raylan felt the knot in his chest tighten. "Tried him a couple more times, but he's still not answering his phone."

"When's the last time you heard from him?"

"His last check in was seven hours ago. He was supposed to check in three hours ago, but we never got anything."

Raylan frowned, walking over to Tim's desk. "He's working that Maddox case, isn't he?"

Art nodded. "At the Reaver house, over near your neck of the woods."

That wasn't what Raylan wanted to hear. He knew what case Tim was working on, and he hadn't been  _happy_  about it when Tim had first told him. He'd heard stories about the Reavers, and he didn't want Tim going anywhere near it.

He cared about Tim, after all. What they had…well, while a couple of late nights…and locker rooms…while that didn't constitute a relationship, Tim was someone he wanted to protect. After Winona, Tim had been there with his fridge full of beers and head full of quirky little jokes and those crooked little smiles. One thing had led to another, and Raylan wanted desperately for it to lead to something else, it just…hadn't quite made it that far yet.

Between that, and Tim's knack for getting himself in sticky situations, Raylan was worried. He told himself that it was probably just a mistake or something, that maybe Tim had just dozed off or gotten too busy to check in. Maybe his phone had died.

Only, there was this feeling Raylan had in his gut. Like a lead weight had settled in the pit of it, and it wasn't going anywhere. Because Tim didn't fall asleep on the job; he was too good for that. He didn't get distracted; when he was on the job, there wasn't a soul in the world more on-point than he. And if his phone had broken, surely he would've found a way to get in touch with them.

Something was wrong…he could feel it.


	3. Chapter 3

Something was wrong…Tim could feel it as he came around. It started as just this…awareness, but slowly more things came into focus to support the feeling. His head was pounding, like Babe Ruth was using his skull for batting practice, and he was swinging for a homer. His hands were bound behind the back of the chair he seemed to be tied to, and as he moved them, he felt something biting into the skin of his wrists. Sharp stings, and burning…like barbed wire.

It was dark, and when he opened his eyes, not much changed. The room he was in was bathed in the pitiful light of the single bulb hanging uncovered from the ceiling above him. What he could see of the room was nasty, like the hunting cabin from hell. Taxidermy heads lined the walls, the smell of rotten meat and must and human filth assaulted his nose, and that was just what he could see. He couldn't quite get his left eye all the way open – something had caked over it, and he could see red reflecting on the side of his nose out of the corner of his eye.

He heard voices. Mostly male, but then…a soft sobbing…female. He turned his head as well as he could, his stiff neck protesting the movement.

There was a girl…the girl from before, his sluggish mind supplied. He'd seen her when they'd taken her in. The bag was off her head, but he recognized the clothes. Recognized the voice. She was crying, her teeth clenched around the gag in her mouth.

But he didn't have time to dwell. Not in the face of the fist that sailed into his stomach without warning.

All the air was knocked out of him in a rush, and as he recovered enough to straighten, he found himself staring straight into the face of the man he knew from the file to be Deacon Reaver.

"Look who's finally awake," the man said, his foul teeth giving way to fouler breath that nearly made Tim's stomach roll. Or maybe that was the punch; he couldn't tell.

He squared his shoulders all the same, his own face as casual as if he was discussing the weather. Because Tim was good in situations like this…as good as anyone could be, anyhow. Detachment was something he excelled at.

And besides, he found being calm really  _pissed_  nut jobs off, and if that wasn't a silver lining, well he just didn't know what was.

"You shoot my boy, Deputy U.S. Marshal Tim Gutterson?" The man tossed Tim's badge into his lap.

Tim looked down at it, then back up at Deacon. "You read that all by yourself?" he asked, eyebrow arched despite the twinge it brought about in his head.

He got another punch, this time straight to the jaw, for his trouble. "Answer the question, rat!"

After a moment of pretending to think and pretending  _not_  to have to catch his breath, Tim answered, "I dunno…it's all a bit fuzzy, what with the head wound and all. Was he the one looked like a dead 'possum?"

Deacon looked taken aback for a second. Wasn't used to his kidnapees giving him lip, Tim supposed. His confusion morphed into a laugh, showing off once again his black-lined, yellow teeth. "You think you're funny, boy." For the first time, Deacon turned to the other guys in the room. Tim recognized one as the guy he  _hadn't_  managed to put a bullet in, and the other was another of the five.

Well, four, now.

"He thinks he's funny!" And then Deacon whirled around, fingers of his free hand fisting in Tim's hair and forcing his head back while the knife pushed against the skin of his neck. "You ain't gonna be laughing for long, rat. I'll see to it."

Tim swallowed, feeling the knife sting against the bob of his Adam's Apple. "Say," he said carefully, "that a Bowie knife you're holding under my chin?" He knew, in fact, that it was. It was  _the_  Bowie knife…the Bowie knife of Jimmy Maddox.

Deacon's eyes flicked to the knife in his hands, then back up to Tim.

Tim decidedly didn't like the gleam in his eyes.

"You like this knife, rat?" he asked, raising the blade to Tim's eyes, so close he could see the scratches from bad sharpening, the blood crusted on the hilt…his own blood, where the edge of the blade had split the skin of his neck. "Want to know what it  _feels_  like?"

It was all Tim could do to keep his face straight as the blade disappeared from sight. And he did learn what it felt like, as it pressed to his shoulder. He felt it bite into the skin, felt the white hot pain of it as Deacon dragged it down across his chest. The agony spread like wildfire down his stomach, to his hip, and it didn't recede even as the knife appeared before his face again.

He fought not to flinch back as the blade, warm with his own blood, touched his lips.

"Want to know what it  _tastes_  like?"

Tim's stomach rolled as Deacon brought the bloody blade to his own lips, his tongue running along its edge and his mouth splitting into sick grin. He licked his lips. "You scared yet, law man?"

And through the pain searing a path down his chest, through the throbbing of his heart, and the beating of his pulse in his head, Tim could think of only one answer. The truth, spoken through gritted teeth.

"No."

In a final show of defiance, he spat at the man. The blood that had been on his lips from the blade and his split lip sprayed across his captor's face.

For a moment, Deacon looked surprised. It settled, though, into a smile as he reached up to wipe the bloody spit from his cheek. He turned around to his companions, who each sat watching with those same brainless, pitiless grins on their faces. "We got ourselves a hero here, boys," he jeered. Without warning, he turned and swung his fist at Tim's face, cracking Tim's head to the side with the force of it. The knife in his hand scraped across Tim's cheek, leaving a line of blood just beneath one bruising eye. Again, he jerked Tim's head up by his hair, forcing Tim to meet his eyes. "Heroes don't last, here. Die too quick or turn coward and die anyhow." He leaned in closer, his grip on Tim's hair tightening painfully. "How long you reckon you'll make it?"

Tim knew that was a threat. He knew that whatever this guy – these guys – were planning to do with him (and probably the girl next to him), it wasn't going to be pretty. The knife show and the fact that they'd let him see their faces told him that chances were, they weren't planning on letting him out of this alive.

Well, he had plans of his own.

He matched the bastard's smile with one of his own, grinning a bloody grin. "Long enough to watch you die, I'd wager."

Deacon chuckled at that, turning around to let out a bellowing laugh with his two cohorts. Tim knew they didn't take him seriously…all the better. The element of surprise was a good thing to have on his side.

And something told him he'd need all the help he could get.

The fist that connected with the side of his head caught him off guard, and Tim's world went black.

Boot echoed and creaked on the wood floor as the three men left. With all their toys out for the count, there was nothing there for them. Their voices echoed through the house until a door slammed.

Tim opened his eyes.

He glanced towards the doorway…not even a shadow. The people weren't in there, and from the sounds of their voices, they were either outside or on the other side of the house. He had time, then. Time to get answers. Time to get free.

"Hey," he said quietly. Because he didn't want those people to hear him.

The girl jumped like she'd been shot. Tim winced in sympathy; she couldn't have been out of her early twenties, probably not out of her late teens. One spaghetti strap of her tank top was ripped, and her brown hair was a wreck.

Her eyes were wide as they settled on him, and she started to try to speak.

"No, hey, you need to be quiet, okay?" As he spoke, he worked at his hands. He could feel the metal biting into his wrists, but he found an end with his fingers. The barbed wire was a cruel trick, but they'd have been better off with zip ties. It hurt like hell, but Tim was sure he could get it unwound. "I'm Deputy U.S. Marshal Tim Gutterson, and I'm gonna get us out of here."

Rather than replying, the girl just closed her eyes in a soft sob. She was so scared, Tim could tell. He would be lying to say he wasn't scared, too, but this wasn't the first time he'd been captured, and hell, it probably wasn't gonna be the last. He could keep his cool with the best of them, and it was time to put all that he learned in Afghanistan to good use.

Starting with pain management. He'd gotten the wire loose enough that he could slip his hands out, all he had to do was deal with the points dragging along the backs of his hands. He gritted his teeth, focusing on getting one hand out.

Success! Bringing his hand around, he carefully unwrapped the rusted barbed wire from around the other hand. The bindings around his ankles went similarly, and he was free!

He paused for a second, making sure the voices still sounded far away before he lurched from his chair. He hit his knees hard in front of her, reaching up to take the gag form her mouth.

She immediately started to speak, but he cut her off. "Quiet, remember? Don't want those fellas coming back in here."

He stood, trying to ignore the wave of dizziness and nausea that came with the pain in his head. He glanced down at the cut on his chest, stark against his white t-shirt. It was long, from his shoulder to the opposite hip, but it wasn't too deep. The dizziness wasn't blood loss, so it wasn't worth concerning himself with.

Reaching around her, he started freeing her hands. She had no barbed wire – he imagined the badge got him special treatment – and even though the knot was done by someone that knew what they were doing, Tim had his fair share of merit badges, too. With fingers oddly steady for the situation, he pulled the knot apart and freed her hands. He made similar work of the bindings at her feet, and then stood and helped her up.

Grabbing the terrified girl by her shoulders, he pulled her around to face him. Step one when rescuing a victim in enemy territory: know victim. "What's your name?" he whispered quickly.

"Ellie," the girl choked out. She was sobbing, her shoulders shaking in Tim's firm grip.

Tim just nodded. Step two: calm victim. "Okay, Ellie, I need you to hold it together for me. Can you do that?" When he received no answer, he tipped her chin up. "Can you do that for me, Ellie?" he repeated.

This time, she nodded.

Step three: make a plan. "Ellie, whatever happens here, I'm gonna get you out of here. You stay on me like stink on a skunk, 'less I tell you otherwise. And if I tell you otherwise, you don't wait around. You high tail it, far and fast the other way 'till you hit civilization. You understand? I'm the only one gets to play hero."

Ellie sniffled, but eventually…. "Okay."

"Good girl." Tim let go of her in favor of heading for the door. He paused at the archway, listening close to make sure he didn't hear anyone. He looked in, found the kitchen, and not a soul in sight.

Good enough for him.

He slipped inside, and Ellie followed in behind him as he ran over to the cabinets. Open. Trinkets. Close. Open. Silverware. Close. Open. Knives.

Tim picked a couple out. A small one, tucked in the side of his boot between the tongue and the side so's it wouldn't cut into his foot when he walked. A medium one, shoved between his belt and belt loop.

To keep in hand, he picked the gun taped to the bottom of the drawer. He'd figured there'd be one. It was a P.O.S. revolver, only half its rounds, but it was better than nothing.

He handed Ellie a small knife, too. "You get in a situation this needs using, you use it. Don't hesitate," he said, turning as he walked towards the sliding door at the back of the kitchen. As he went, he added under his breath, "'Cause God knows they won't."

Keeping close to the wall, Tim glanced out through the screen door. Sounded like the guys were on the other side, but he couldn't be sure. Either way, he needed to make a call. If he could find a phone, he needed to call the service and let them know what was going on, that he needed help. There wasn't one in the kitchen, which meant that he would have to go exploring. Only, he didn't want to bring Ellie along. He couldn't risk getting her caught again…tortured, though she looked well enough right now. Seemed he'd taken most of the beating, and he had no real qualms with that.

"You stay here," he told her. "Make yourself small, and if you hear someone coming, you get out."

"Where are you going?"

"I need to make a call."


	4. Chapter 4

"What do you mean we can't go after him?" Raylan demanded, rising from his desk chair with enough force to send it rolling back into the shelf with a loud crack.

Art glanced around at all the eyes that had suddenly snapped to Raylan's desk. "Keep your voice down, Raylan," he chided. "I ain't exactly thrilled about it, either, but word's final. Tim's in Bennett County lines on their permission only, and your boy Doyle's just yanked our invitation. Unless we can find something that gives us reason to be there, we're stuck sitting on our hands."

"The hell we are," Raylan seethed. "Tim doesn't just  _forget_  to check in." he frowned, taking off his hat and running his hand through his hair irately.

"Maybe he just got caught up. Hell, maybe he just dropped his phone into a puddle or something. Sure wouldn't be the first time.

While it was true that Tim was probably the reigning king of misplaced phones – he'd probably lost more Marshal-issued phones than the rest of the office combined – Raylan just didn't think that was it. "I don't think so, Art. I just…I got this feeling." There was a knot in the pit of his gut the size of a bowling ball, and it just kept getting bigger by the minute.

Art, rather than firing off a smart-mouthed retort, let out a sigh. Raylan could tell by the look in his eyes that he was uneasy about this, too. Probably the only reason Raylan hadn't torn him a new one for keeping him from riding in and finding Tim himself. Just the thought of something happening to him…

"Christ…so, what now? I ain't about to just sit here."

"Well," Art said, "Doyle's asking us why we ought to be there…I say we give him what he's asking for."

And with that, Art turned away, walking back into his office and leaving Raylan standing by himself.

He wasn't that way for long. Rachel came up behind him, thwapping him on the shoulder with a manila folder. Raylan took it from her. "Please tell me this is good news," he said as he opened the folder in the crook of his arm. He flipped through it, but rather than relieved, all he got was more confused.

"What's this have to do with Tim?" he asked. Because he was assuming that was what it was for. It was nearing four in the morning, and there wasn't a soul in the office that wasn't working on finding the missing deputy.

Rachel rolled her eyes, snatching the folder and laying it out on Raylan's desk. "Art said we needed jurisdiction…well, here it is. A kidnapping got called in about five hours ago."

"Now, Rachel, I can't begin to tell you how much that upset me, but you understand I've got bigger concerns at the moment." With his nerves stretched thin, Raylan had reverted back to his defense mechanism of choice: dry, patronizing sarcasm.

Rachel seemed to prefer the standby "unimpressed and don't take that tone with me, boy" eyebrow raise and arm cross. "Raylan, I get that you think you've got the rights on worrying about Tim, and normally I'd say you're right. But just because I'm not screwing him doesn't mean I don't care about him, so I'd appreciate it if you'd shove it and let me speak."

To say Raylan got caught a little off guard would be an understatement. It had been a trying sort of morning, and he was prone to shocks. He really hadn't thought…well, maybe he'd suspected sometimes that Rachel was picking up on it, but…having it thrown in his face like that was kind of like getting doused in a bucket of ice water.

Rachel must've noticed the deer-in-headlights look on his face, because her eyes softened. "I know you're worried; we all are. But we're gonna find him." She smiled, and in the face of her, Raylan couldn't help feeling at least a little bit more hopeful than before. "Besides, if anyone can take care of himself, it's Tim."

While on a general basis, Raylan might be inclined to disagree with that – Tim could be damn absentminded, forgetting to go home when the day was over, forgetting to eat when he was up to his eyeballs in a case – but this wasn't a general basis. This was the field, this was a case, a  _mission_ , and in that, Raylan had to give it to him. "He's a scary little son of a bitch," he said, and he couldn't help the chuckle at the end. Pride, maybe. Or just plain nerves. Either way, he had things he needed to be focusing on. He cleared his throat. "So…the kidnapping?"

Moment effectively over, Rachel turned back to the folder on the desk. "Like I was saying, it happened five hours ago." Raylan opened her mouth to tell her to get to the point, but she cut him off. "About the time when Tim went missing?"

"Don't you think that might just be a bit coincidental?" Raylan asked. He didn't mean to poke holes in Rachel's lead – God knew he was more than happy to have one – but he needed this to be a real one. He needed this to get him closer to finding Tim.

Rachel pulled a sheet of paper from the folder, handing it to Raylan. "Bartender saw her walk out of the bar, and a few minutes later, a man says he saw a two white males peeling out of the lot in a hurry."

By that point, Raylan had already caught up on the witness statement she'd handed him. "In an old Bronco with one taillight," he finished for her, just in time to look at the other sheet she handed to him. When his eyes roved over the contents of the page, had he been in any better a mood, Raylan might've started cutting the rug on the spot. "Says here there's a '91 Bronco registered to Donnie Reaver." He reached down to the desk and plucked a small slip of paper from the stack. "And ding ding ding, we have a winner. A citation for a busted taillight for one Donnie Reaver. Rachel, I could kiss you."

"Save it for when we find your boyfriend," Rachel replied, smiling. The smile didn't last long, though. "This is still Bennett County jurisdiction, though, Raylan. The best we can do is ask them to check it out…I'm sorry, but it's all I have for now."

Raylan's heart sank at that, but just before it hit the bottom, it started up again. His eyes had fallen on the header of the report…the name of the girl.

"Eleanor Higgins. I've heard that name before."

Rachel arched an eyebrow. "You have?"

Raylan nodded, dropping into his chair and turning on his computer. "One of the perks of a small town: everybody knows everybody."

"Let me guess…you went to high school with her." She was trying to sound pointed, but Raylan could hear just as much excitement in her voice beneath the surface as he was bottling up in his own chest.

Raylan didn't raise his eyes from the computer screen. "Played ball with her brother. Whole family's a bunch of pot-heads and crooks. There's not a one of 'em that doesn't have a rap sheet long as I am tall. Might be something we can—pay dirt!" He practically leapt from his seat. "Skipped out on a drug charge last month."

"Hell of a coincidence."

Raylan grinned. "I take 'em where I can get 'em. Come on, let's go run this by Art and hit the road."

Rachel nodded. However, just as Raylan was grabbing the folders off the desk, he felt a buzzing in his coat. His cell was going off.

At first, he had half a mind to let it ring. He had other things to worry about; whoever that was could wait.

But then, there was something…something made him answer the phone. He pulled it from his coat, glancing at the number on the screen as he brought it to his ear. The number, he didn't know; the area code, he did. It was Bennett County.

After that, Raylan couldn't answer the phone fast enough. There weren't, after all, a lot of people in Bennett County he was expecting a call from, and he was almost dead certain he'd filled his coincidence quota for the day.

"Who is this?" he asked, and he could only hope he'd be able to hear the response over the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. He'd heard gunshots quieter.

God, he thought, let it be Tim _._  Let it be that quirky little son of a gun calling from some roadside payphone or the phone in some gas station. Let him be pissed that his phone couldn't handle a little bit of water or that he didn't have a ride. Let him seethe about the shitty weather and Raylan's shittier hometown.

Let him be and do all of those things…but most of all, let him be  _safe_.

And then he heard it.

 _"Raylan_."

The word came as a breathless whisper through the speaker of his phone, but in it, he could hear a tension that set Raylan on edge.

"Tim!" Several eyes from the office fell to him immediately, including Rachel's, but he didn't care. "Tim, what's going on? Where are you?"

_"No time. I need backup at the Reaver house."_

Raylan was having a hard time understanding him. He was breaking up, and though Tim himself was speaking with that precise clarity he only seemed to use on the job – all other times, it was that mumbled southern drawl of his – it was nearly impossible to hear him. The urgency was clear enough, though; he spoke quickly, and Raylan could  _feel_  that something was desperately wrong.

"Tim, what happened?"

_"Should've been more careful…one got the drop on me."_

Raylan felt his stomach turn in his gut. Tim got caught off guard. That following a call for help, and Raylan knew it couldn't mean anything good. Especially with the way he sounded. He'd noticed before, but now he was sure…Tim's voice was hitching. He took breaths between his words, almost like…

Like he was hurt.

"Are you okay?"

But Tim's attention, his focus, was elsewhere. Everything was clinical…tactical.  _"Four suspects, presumed armed. One civilian…woman, early twenties…."_

"Tim, I need you to tell me if you're okay," Raylan insisted. Now that he'd heard it, there was no ignoring the pain in his voice. With Tim, there was no telling just how bad it was, so he needed to know.

_"I'm fine. Found a gun, some knives…I'm gonna try to get us out of here."_

"No heroics, Tim." He knew the guy; he knew that Tim would do just like him and save the girl if it was the last thing he did. He knew he'd throw himself into the line of fire for another person in a heartbeat, get himself killed or captured so long as there was an inkling of a chance she'd get out.

He was asking him not to. "You promise me you'll get out of there. You get somewhere safe."

_"I'll do what I can."_

"No, Tim! That isn't good enough. I don't—"

_"Raylan, there's someone coming."_

It felt like a spire of ice drove into Raylan's gut. Maybe it was the nerves…maybe it was cold calm of Tim's voice.

He tried to force himself to adopt a little bit of that calm. For Tim's sake. "Alright," he said. "Alright, Tim, get out of there."

_"Sorry, Ray…not really an option."_

Normally, Raylan would've asked what  _precisely_  Tim meant by "not really an option," but he'd been in this business long enough to know what someone – even someone like Tim – sounded like with a gun to their heads.

The voice he heard in the background confirmed it. He couldn't quite make out what the guy was saying, but Tim's response was clear.

_"About that…Let's get something straight, big guy…You raise that gun, I'll kill you where you stand."_

Raylan heard the soft rustle of clothing, but little else. More words from the other man in the room, just as incomprehensible as the last. He wanted to say something, wanted to ask what was going on, but he knew the last thing that Tim needed was a distraction.

And then he heard a soft grunt from Tim, and something heavy hit the floor.

In Raylan's mind's eye, he could just see it: Tim on the floor with a bullet hole in him, bleeding…dying. Tim dead…the thought sent all the air out of Raylan's chest and left behind the feeling that he'd never breathe again.

_"Three suspects, presumed armed."_

The relief was nearly enough to knock Raylan to the floor. Tim was okay…the other guy was dead, and he hadn't heard the gunshot. He didn't know what'd gone down, but Tim was still alive.

_"They're comin', Raylan, and I don't got much time. If I don't make it out of this—"_

"Tim—"

_"—if I don't make it out of this, thank you. For seeing me as a human being and not just a good shot. If I don't...well, it ain't nobody's fault. It's on me, okay? And tell Rachel I said her coffee's for shit."_

"Tim, we're gonna come for you, okay? Two hours, just make it two hours. We're gonna come."

_"I know."_

And then the line went dead.

Raylan could hardly breathe. He felt his eyes burning, his heart racing.

"Raylan, what happened? What'd he say?"

He'd said goodbye. In his own Tim sort of way, he'd said goodbye.

Well, Raylan wasn't about to accept that. Clearing his throat, he shoved his phone back in his pocket and blinked his eyes clear again. "Doesn't matter," he said. "He's alive and fighting, and we're going to get him."


	5. Chapter 5

Tim had never been so relieved in his life as he was the moment he heard Raylan's voice on the other end. He'd thought for a second that he wasn't going to answer, right around the third ring, but then he'd picked up, and now he was speaking, and Tim had never heard a better sound.

"Raylan," he breathed. He wanted to be happy, he wanted to be comforted, but he had to remember the situation. The word came out terse, and for good reason. His chest was killing him, and blood wept slowly over the hand he'd pressed to it.

As Raylan spoke, asking him what happened, he looked around for something to cover the deeper part of the wound. There was a clothes basket in the corner, full of folded clothes – he assumed they were clean, given these fellas didn't seem the type to fold their dirty clothes after using them – and he grabbed one of the flannel shirts off the top of the pile. With the phone held between his ear and his shoulder to free up a hand, he shredded the shirt and used it to wrap around his bleeding shoulder.

"No time," he said, pausing to bite back a hiss as he tied the shirt tight. "I need backup at the Reaver house."

_"Tim, what happened?"_

What happened? He remembered getting knocked out…the pain in his head was a reminder of that. Then waking up, facing off with Deacon…escaping.

But that last bit wasn't important. Raylan just needed to know the basics. He just needed to know that there was trouble, and that Tim needed help.

"Should've been more careful…one got the drop on me." As he spoke, he worked to tie a couple more strips of the shirt around his bleeding wrists. It was hard, trying to wrap and tie with just one hand, but he managed.

_"Are you okay?"_

No, Tim wasn't okay. He was hurt, even he knew that. The bleeding wasn't that bad, but the head wound was probably a concussion. He didn't think his nose was broken, but he could feel it swelling, and his eyes felt tight where the swelling and bruising was probably spreading.

But that didn't matter. That, he could handle. This…this wasn't the first time he'd had to run from a bunch of psychopaths. Wasn't the first time he'd been captured, tortured...He had a job to do. To get that girl out and keep her safe, and hopefully to get himself out. After that, the detachment was easy. It was always easier to distance yourself in situations like this. No emotion, just the job. No fear, no self-concern, just doing what needs to be done. If all went well, there would be time for panic later.

Until then, details were everything.

"Four suspects, presumed armed. One civilian…woman, early twenties."

This, he could do. This was what he needed to do. He had to stay on point.

But Raylan as making it so hard….

 _"Tim,"_  he said, and Tim could hear the worry in his voice, beneath the forced calm,  _"I need you to tell me if you're okay."_

Part of him wanted to break down at that. He wanted the comfort, the reassurance. But the other part knew that if he gave into that, he would never get out of this alive.

So, he lied, though whether the lie was meant for Raylan or himself, even he couldn't tell. "I'm fine," he said. "Found a gun, some knives…I'm gonna try to get us out of here."

_"No heroics, Tim."_

Had the situation been any different, Tim might've laughed hearing those words out of Raylan's mouth. Raylan Givens was the king of heroics, and there he was telling Tim not to pull them?

But he didn't just stop there.  _"You promise me you'll get out of there. You get somewhere safe."_

Tim wanted to make that promise, really he did. He didn't believe in making promises he couldn't keep, though. He knew that he'd get the girl out; he wasn't giving himself a choice in that. But if it came down to her life or his…then there was really nothing he could do about Raylan's promise.

"I'll do what I can," he compromised.

_"No, Tim! That isn't good enough. I don't—"_

There was a sound at the door. The wood creaked.

"Raylan, there's someone coming," he whispered. There was no time for this...seemed like shit was about to go down. He could've run, but he knew he didn't have time. He only heard one set of feet…he could take them.

_"Alright…Alright, Tim, get out of there."_

The words had no sooner finished passing through the earpiece than a figure appeared in the doorway.

"Sorry, Ray…" he said. The pet name slipped out on accident, but in light of the other things going on, it hardly seemed worth fretting over. "…Not really an option."

It was one of the younger Reavers…the one that Tim hadn't shot. He looked surprised for a second, seeing Tim there, but he recovered with a grin that showed off teeth nearly as bad as Tim remembered Deacon's being. He guessed that was what happened when a man's idea of dental hygiene was a carton of chew.

"Well, lookie what we got here," the guy said. He already had a gun out at his side. "Pretty boy's gone and gotten himself out. Paw was wrong about you…said you wasn't gonna be much of a hunt. But me, I sees them dog tags you was wearing and I says otherwise. Looks like I's right." He took a step forward, and Tim's mind started racing.

He could go for his gun. Chances were, he could get off a shot before this guy put him down. He was no Raylan on the quick draw, but he could do alright…better than this son of a bitch. But that'd be loud. Someone would hear, the others would come running, and their cover would be blown. Tim wanted to get a chance to get out before they came running. He couldn't risk them finding they were out before he could at least get Ellie gone.

"Seems like a real waste just to put a bullet in you…" He took another step closer, hardly four, five steps away. "What say you we have us some fun 'fore we send you running?"

Tim raised an eyebrow. Was this guy really…? His lip curled, his nose wrinkling. That might've been the worst news he'd heard all night.

Reaver at least had the brains to pick up on that. Didn't take much to see Tim wasn't interested – putting it lightly – and luckily this guy had the "not much" to figure it out. Didn't mean he was put off, though. "Or I could just shoot you and do what I like wit'chu."

Tim  _really_  hoped Raylan wasn't hearing this. 'Cause Christ, if he was gonna die, he wasn't going out like that. "About that," he said. "Let's get something straight, big guy...You raise that gun, I'll kill you where you stand."

As he spoke, he carefully lowered his hand to the knife in his boot. This son of a bitch wasn't gonna lay a hand on him…now, sure, he didn't want to draw his gun, make a racket. But sniping wasn't the only thing he was good at.

"You really think you're gonna  _kill_  me 'fore I can put another hole in you to fuck? Well, let's just see about that why don't—"

Reaver's eyes went wide, and he dropped to the floor, a small kitchen knife stuck in his throat. Try as he might, as he moved his mouth, only blood sputtered out.

Sniping wasn't the only thing Tim was good at.

He was also damn good at knife-throwing.

"Three suspects," he amended, hoping Raylan was still on the phone, "presumed armed." As he spoke, he could hear the screen door opening in the front. Whatever he had to say to Raylan, then, he had to say it fast...but damn, he had so much he wanted to say. "They're comin', Raylan, and I don't got much time. If I don't make it out of this—"

_"Tim—"_

But Tim didn't have time to let Raylan cut him off. If he was going to die, which he strongly suspected he might, he wanted to say what he needed to say first. "—if I don't make it out of this, thank you. For seeing me as a human being and not just a good shot." Because Raylan had done that. They weren't exactly married, or hell, even going steady, but he cared for Raylan. Even if it'd just been screwing for Raylan, that was still more than Tim had gotten from anyone else, 'cause with Raylan, he wasn't just a pretty face at a bar or an  _admirable_  veteran to add a purple heart to the notches on someone's bedpost. He was Tim…he was all those other things too, maybe, but he was still Tim, and knowing that someone like Raylan could give a damn about someone like him….

And if someone like Raylan was bound to take his dying bad. If he knew him, which he liked to think he did – given he cared a hell of a lot more about Raylan than just a screw – then Raylan would probably find some way to blame himself.

He cleared his throat. "If I don't…well, it ain't nobody's fault. It's on me, okay?" He should've seen that bastard coming. But hell, this was all getting a bit sad, and Tim really didn't care to go out like that, either. "And tell Rachel I said her coffee's for shit."

There, those were some alright last words, weren't they?

_"Tim, we're gonna come for you, okay? Two hours…just make it two hours. We're gonna come."_

He sounded so determined, and Tim didn't doubt him. They  _would_  come for him. Hell, they were probably running to the car right then.

"I know," he said. Because it wasn't a question of whether or not they'd come for him.

It was a question of whether he'd be around when they got there.

Of course, he wanted to be. He planned to be, if there was anything he could do about it, and he wasn't going to make it just standing around there. The people were moving closer – he could hear their footsteps on the old floors.

Dropping the phone back in its cradle, he turned and ran back into the kitchen.

He just barely managed to grab a thin wrist before a cast iron skillet hit his head. He followed the wrist to an arm, and eventually to a face.

"Ellie, it's me," he hissed through gritted teeth, and she dropped the skillet. Once again, he just barely managed to grab it. A cast iron skillet hitting the floor was bound to make about as much noise as a bullet, and he really didn't want them to come running.

Not that it seemed to matter. He got Ellie to the door, but right then, he heard a shout.

"Marty!" he heard from the room he'd just run out of. It sounded like Deacon doing the shouting, and he assumed that meant they'd found the body he'd dropped. Shit.

He turned to Ellie. "Run," he said. "Listen for cars, stay off the gravel road out of here. That's the first place they're gonna look. Take the woods, watch out for bear traps."

Ellie looked panicked. "Where'll you be?"

"Giving you a head start." He pushed the sliding door open and shoved her out. "Now, go!" He waited until he saw her running to turn around.

Just in time to see three men in the doorway.

"That's another one of my boys you've killed, rat," Deacon practically snarled gun raised and leveled at Tim's head.

"Probably won't be the last," Tim said. Then he smiled his cheekiest smile – Raylan would've been so proud.

And then he ran like hell.


	6. Chapter 6

Tim had never been a big fan of those big stand-offs in movies. Two men staring each other down…one single solitary bead of sweat trailing down the side of their faces…neither blinking. It all just seemed a little bit contrived.

See, he knew how it really happened. He was living it right then. One man sees another man he doesn't want to be seeing, knows it can't end well, and does the smart thing:

He books it.

Which was precisely what Tim had done. Turning on his heel, he bolted like greased lightening for the door on the other side of the room. It was hanging ajar, and he could see the stairs that went down it. After casing the joint for as many days as he did, he knew where every door went, how to get to every room. He knew that there were cellar doors into the basement – he could see them from the outside. Granted, he had no idea what the actual basement looked like, but when faced with the choice of an unmapped basement and a gun pointed at his head, he was gonna take his chances with the former.

Good thing, too. He heard the sharp report of a gun firing and heard glass shattering right behind where his head had been only moments before.

"Where you going, rat?" he heard Deacon holler behind him as he bolted down the stairs. There was a taunt in the voice, but there was anger in it, too. He wasn't as in control as he'd thought he was, and that gave Tim a small sense of satisfaction. If he could put these bastards off their game, then that was a point in his favor.

He'd only hit about the middle of the questionable-looking wooden stairs when he hit a wall of the foulest smell he'd ever had the displeasure of smelling. He nearly hurled on the spot as it attacked his nose…pungent and sickly sweet and sour and all-around  _rotten…_ Christ, it smelled like something had died.

Of course, in the spirit of not becoming that something that died in there, he didn't let it stop him. He ran down the rest of the way into the stairs, grabbing at the string for the light as he went. Because hell, they already knew he was down there – he might as well be able to see them when they came. All that "element of surprise" stuff was great, except they had the home field advantage. They'd be much better off with this place in the dark than Tim would be.

Though, the sight he saw when he got the lights on almost made him want to flick it back off and just give them the advantage anyhow, 'cause this…this was wrong.

If he'd thought the room he'd waken up from was the hunting cabin from hell, this proved him wrong. There were all sorts of taxidermy animals in varying states of completion. The table in the very middle of the room was a rusty red and covered with all sorts of red, slimy things that Tim really didn't care to identify. There were opossums and raccoons and deer and rabbits and all the rest of the cast of Bambi hanging from hooks or mounted on walls. And in the very back of the room, lined up along the very back wall, were the  _pieces de resistance._

People. There were people, lined up on the wall on mounts in all sorts of poses. Some had clothes on, some didn't, and he could see stitches around their limbs and their too-pale skin. Their eyes were open, but Tim knew marble when he saw it.

They were taxidermy…people.

And hanging from a hook just in front of them was none other than Bart Maddox. His throat was slit, and as Tim skidded to a halt, his feet slipped on something in the floor. Blood, spilled from his still fleshy body.

Tim Gutterson had seen a lot of things before…things that would send most men screaming to the loony bin, but this…

"Jesus Christ…"

"Admiring my work, rat?"

Tim's head snapped up to see Deacon and his two remaining boys standing at the bottom of the stairs. Each and every one of them was watching him with a predatory sort of smile, not like he was a guy they were about to kill, but like he was prey they were about to hunt.

It was all Tim could do to pull himself together. All he could do not to pass out or hurl or curl up in a ball and cry…but he was U.S. Marshal. He'd been an Army-Fucking-Ranger, and he was better than that.

Instead, he squared up his shoulders and turned to the men, his hand going to the handle of the gun tucked in the back of his jeans. "So…" he began, his voice a hell of a lot steadier than he felt, "you sick fucks stuff people."

It was the first thing that came to his mind, and frankly, given what he'd seen, it would be a long time before it left.

The Reaver boys exchanged looks and dark chuckles before returning their gazes to Tim.

"We don't just stuff 'em," said one of the boys in the back. He was the bigger of the two – bigger than Deacon, too, and probably a good two, three times Tim's size – with a sleeveless flannel shirt and jeans covered in what Tim hoped were grease stains. "We hunt 'em, too."

The pieces had long since fallen into place, but this really clinched it. "You planning on hunting me?" he asked.

"Not planning on it, rat," Deacon said.

The other one, the scrawnier one – still bigger than Tim – snorted out a chuckle. "Shoot, we're doing it right now!"

Great, so he was being hunted. And right now, it looked like he'd been backed into a trap. Now, he wasn't the expert on being prey, but it didn't seem to him like that was a good idea. He needed an exit.

"I think it's fair to let you know this ain't gonna end well for you," Tim said, and as he spoke, he slowly backed up towards the cellar door.

Deacon smiled. "You killed my boys, Deputy. Ain't no way this is gonna end where I ain't skinning you myself. You and that bitch…I'm gonna make the two of you squeal like stuck pigs, and then I'm gonna carve out your insides and stuff you. And if you're  _real_  lucky, boy, maybe I'll kill you first."

A lesser man would've fainted right about then. With the malicious sneers on the three Reavers' faces, the pungent smell, the grotesque  _horrors_  surrounding him, and the pain that surged through every last inch of his body with each beat of his heart…it seemed like a strong possibility. Even Tim could feel the odd pull in his stomach and the dark in his eyes that generally heralded a close encounter with the floor.

Granted, one look at the floor was pretty good incentive to keep on his feet. As if the three guns pointed his way and the girl on her own outside weren't. Besides, he'd told Raylan he'd try…well, time to make good on that.

"Yeah, well, you're gonna have to catch me first," Tim said.

Deacon laughed. "Boy, I do hate to break it to you, but that door you're sidling up to's padlocked. Unless you got a key on you, you ain't got nowhere to go."

Tim held up a single finger. "I  _had_  thought of that."

And without further ado, he turned heel and ran up the stairs. He whipped the gun from the back of his pants as he did, firing one shot into the padlock. Curses and gunshots went off behind him, but none of the bullets struck true and he threw the doors open.

He scrambled out into the rain, grabbing a tire iron that had been left near the cellar doors. He could hear them screaming after him as he threw the doors back closed, shoving the tire iron through the handles and falling back just in time to avoid the explosion of wood as a bullet shot through it.

Feet sliding on the wet, muddy ground, he pushed himself back up and ran like hell. Those bastards would be on him as soon as they got out of the house, and he was gonna make of his short head start what he could. First step was to track down Ellie, and then he'd see about getting the both of them out of there.

It was hard as hell to see, with the pouring rain, but he could see the tree line, and that was good enough for him. He tried to run in the same direction the screen door from the kitchen let out, figuring Ellie'd probably just panicked and ran straight.

He'd made it a few paces into the trees when he heard the whooping pick up again. They were outside and on his trail. They were coming. Coming to skin him…to stuff him. And kill him first, if he was lucky.

Well, he sure as hell wasn't gonna make it easy for them.


	7. Chapter 7

"Raylan, I'm in just as much of a hurry as you are, but we're going too fast. If we crash, we're both gonna die," Rachel said from the passenger seat. She had a death grip on the door handle and was keeping her eyes staring pointedly ahead.

Raylan didn't ease off the pedal one bit. "Then I guess it's a good thing I'm not planning on crashing."

Rachel set her jaw, but wisely didn't say anything else. Seemed she knew better than to try to talk to Raylan when he was like this.

Raylan, for his part, couldn't help it. Last he'd heard from Tim, he was on the lamb from three armed guys that Raylan knew personally to be stark-raving lunatic hillbillies. Needless to say, the situation was  _not_  ideal.

The next few minutes passed without conversation between the two of them, Raylan keeping his eyes on the road while the steering wheel suffered beneath the force of his white-knuckled grip, and Rachel talking to someone on the phone.

It got pretty heated towards the end of the call, and when she was done, Raylan prompted, "Who's that you're reading the riot act?"

"A deputy down at the Bennett County station."

That got Raylan's attention. He glanced at her briefly, a question in his eyes.

"Eyes on the road," Rachel reminded him, and when Raylan did as she asked, she answered his unspoken question. "They checked the house. There's three bodies—"

Raylan's heart skipped a beat.

"Bart Maddox, found in the basement, throat slit. George Reaver, found next to the kitchen with a knife in his neck, and William Reaver, found in the living room on the couch. He was wet, so they assumed he'd been brought in from outside."

"How'd he die?"

"Gunshot wound to the head. I think it's safe to assume—"

"That it's Tim's handy work," Raylan finished for her. "What about Tim? Any signs of him?"

"They didn't find him or Eleanor Higgins, but they're searching the area now. There's a lot of woods around he could be in, and with the other three Reavers presumably in the area, they're having to be careful." She rubbed her face. "Raylan, there's something you should know…Bart Maddox isn't the only body they found in the basement."

"I thought you said there were only three bodies."

"There were only three bodies that were still bodies. In the basement they found…what do you call it when they stuff the dead animals?"

Raylan glanced over at her, eyebrow raised. "Taxidermy?"

She nodded, pursing her lips. "They found taxidermy…."

"Rachel, I hate to break it to you, but you'd be hard pressed to find a house in Harlan or Bennett that  _doesn't_  have taxidermy."

"They were people, Raylan. Taxidermy…people."

"You mean…?"

"They were stuffed. And mounted." Her face was set grimly, and Raylan's bore a similar expression. The thought of it….

"Shit." Raylan fidgeted with his hat irately. He'd known the Reavers were bad news, but this… "You mean to tell me Tim's stuck with a bunch of psychopathic man-hunters that keep stuffed people…in their cellar…."

"It gets worse."

"How the hell's it get worse than that?" On second thought, that probably wasn't a good question to be asking.

"All of Tim's belongings have been recovered…his dog tags, his gun….They were all in a drawer. They found some chairs in the living room…it looked like two people had been tied up. They found Tim's badge next to some barbed wire…there was blood there, and blood on the phone in the hall. It  _looks_  like they got loose, and Tim used the phone to call you, but after that, I don't know."

He could tell by the sound of Rachel's voice that there was something she hadn't said. Something she was building up to, maybe, or something she just didn't want to say. She needed to say it, though; he needed to know. "What does that mean for Tim?"

Rachel frowned, her brows pulling down unhappily. "It means…more likely than not, he's hurt."

Raylan cursed, dropping his head to the wheel irately. When he straightened, he slammed his palm into the wheel.

"It could just be a couple of cuts," Rachel said. "They didn't find anything to make them think that it was really bad, I just thought you should know."

He didn't know why the hell she thought that. "He said he was fine," Raylan said through gritted teeth. He'd known it…he'd heard it in Tim's voice. But now there was someone else saying it, and that made it real. Too real.

A hand settled on his shoulder, and he glanced over at Rachel. She was watching him with sympathy and worry in her eyes. "We'll find him, Raylan. He's gonna be okay."

Raylan didn't reply, and if the car sped up a little, Rachel didn't say.

Less than an hour later, Raylan was pulling to a stop in what passed as the Reaver's driveway. It was already full up with squad cars, and as he got out of the car, he was met in an instant by none other than Doyle Bennett.

"Raylan Givens," said the man, an honest-to-god smile on his face as he held out a hand to shake Raylan's.

Raylan walked up past the hand, so close the brim of his hat nearly touched Doyle's head. "I expect you're smiling 'cause you found Deputy Gutterson, 'cause otherwise I'm gonna have to ask you to wipe it off your face 'fore I do."

Doyle pretended to be taken aback. "There's no call to be rude, Raylan."

"I'm gonna take that as a 'no.'"

"Take it how you want, Raylan. We've got some guys out looking for your deputy, but it's some big woods out there, and we ain't got but ten guys handy."

"Where've you looked?"

Doyle raised his eyebrows nonchalantly, waving vaguely behind his head. "Back 'round there. Got three parties of three out, combing the area."

"All that way?"

"Yep."

"Then that ain't combing." Raylan pushed past Doyle, walking up to where he saw a couple of guys next to the house. It was the cellar, and the doors were open with a canopy pulled over it to keep the rain out. The smell was nearly enough to knock him off his feet, but he didn't blame 'em for standing under the tarp; he could hardly hear himself think over the rain and the wind, and it was still just before dawn so it was cold and damn hard to see. His Marshal-issue rain slicker'd kept most of it off his shoulders, and his hat kept his head dry, but the wind wet his face, and water dripped off the brim. Thinking Tim was out in this…Christ, it wasn't bad enough he was being chased around by these nut jobs.

He pushed the thought from his mind. He didn't have time to think about it; he needed to find where Tim had gotten off to. He got to thinking about that…and then he got to looking. The cellar doors…there was a tire iron through the handles, and holes in it looking like it'd been shot to hell.

"You find something?" Rachel asked. She'd come up behind him, standing under the tent.

He didn't respond immediately, moving to get a closer look at the cellar door. He had to cover his nose as he did, and once he got right up next to the cellar, he turned around so that his back was to it and he was looking out at the woods.

"Someone broke out this way," Raylan said, turning back around to the cellar door and pointing to each observation in turn. "The hole in the center here…the lock's been blown off. All the holes otherwise look like they were shooting at someone, and the tire-iron got put on to lock them in. Someone came running through here in a hurry that didn't want to be followed. If I were a betting man, I'd say it was Tim."

"Okay, but what does that do for us."

"Gives us a starting point. Road's that way, too. Tim's too smart to take the gravel; it's the first place they'd look. If I know him, and I'd like to think I do, he'll have gone that way." And he was going to follow him.

He grabbed Rachel by the top of the arm. "Go talk to Doyle. Tell him get a couple of his boys back in, send them where I just showed you. Get them combing the area."

"Where are you going?"

"I'm gonna go find my sniper."


	8. Chapter 8

Tim's lungs burned, but everything else on him was freezing. It was nearing the end of the fall, and with the rains pouring, he was soaked through and cold. The running helped, but it didn't fix it, especially with the blood he'd lost.

He didn't know how long he'd been running. He couldn't hear the Reavers anymore, but then, he couldn't hear much of anything over the rain, so he didn't bother thinking about it. He had other things to do, other things to focus on, like finding Ellie.

Ducking through the trees, he never once broke his stride. It was hard as hell, trying to track someone in weather like this, but he was managing. He'd laid a couple false trails himself, but Ellie wasn't that bright, so he wasn't sure how much good it did him. There were bits of hair here and there, trampled weeds and broken twigs, but most of the giveaways came from the torn shreds of fabric he'd found on more than one occasion.

Luckily for him, Ellie was as shitty an assassin as she was an escapee. Otherwise, he'd have had his face bashed in when she jumped out from behind a tree with a big stick swinging at his head.

He ducked under it just in time and caught her around the waist with an arm. "Drop the damn stick and run," he shouted at her.

"I can't run anymore," she protested, her feet digging into the grass. Tim stopped and turned to her, rain dripping from his lips as he gaped at her.

"You have to," he told her. "It's either you run with me or you stay and let them find you. I don't know what you know about them, but trust me when I say you don't want to be around when they catch this trail."

It sounded good, he thought. He wouldn't do it – leave her behind and let these people catch her – but he hoped the scare tactic would be enough.

Only, it wasn't.

"Too late, pretty boy."

Shit.

"Ellie, hide," Tim said. He recognized the new guy as the smaller of the two sons…not the big guy, and not the head honcho. Still, there was no sense in her running, in getting separated from him. She was just too easy to track, and at least this way he could protect her.

Say what he wanted, though, about her running skills, the girl sure as hell did know how to hide. She made herself scarce, just like Tim told her to.

Unlike all the other times, he didn't have time for talking. He reached for his gun.

"No you don't, rat. Hands out to your side where I can see 'em."

Double shit.

Tim raised his hands in the air.

"'Atta boy. Now turn around, nice and slow."

As much as he would've liked to do something cavalier and clever, when he had a gun pointed at his back and not much in the way of support, there was really only one logical course of action.

He did as he was told, turning around to face the guy.

The guy whistled. "Pretty little cut you got there, rat. Hurts, don't it?" The guy reached for him, and Tim started to shove his hand away, but he found himself with a gun barrel to his chest for his trouble. "Uh uh uh, rat, you just hold still now, else I'll give you something real pretty to bleed from." The guy grinned, and Tim couldn't do a damn thing as he dragged his gun across to Tim's other shoulder. The hurt one.

No matter what, he wouldn't flinch. He told himself…not one wince, not one hiss, even as the muzzle of the gun dug into the wound.

"Hurts, don't it?" the man chuckled, dragging the gun down further along the gash. White hot pain flashed behind Tim's eyes, but still he kept his face steely. "I wanna hear you scream, rat. Scream for me, maybe I'll kill you quick. Paw wants to make you suffer, killing George and Billy like that…I put one in your brain, save you a world of hurtin'. Just scream for me."

Tim waited. There was always a time for everything. A time to run, a time to give in…

A time to move.

And this was it.

He dodged to the side the same time as he swung his arm out, setting the guy's shot off just enough that it didn't hit meat. He brought up the other arm and caught the guy across the face with his elbow. 'cause something told him if he used his fist he'd be walking away with broken fingers, and he didn't want a hurt he didn't have to get.

He kept hold of the gun as the guy stumbled back, turning it around on the guy as he hit the ground. The idiot started to reach for another gun…his mistake. "Scream for this, you son of a bitch," Tim said through gritted teeth, and fired off a single round.

The Reaver screamed as the bullet went through both his hands. All thoughts of the gun he'd been going for were gone, and he didn't even seem to realize what Tim was doing as he marched up and pistol whipped him upside the bald head.

But Tim didn't stop there. He knew the guy'd come around eventually, and he didn't want to risk it. Too bad for him, the guy'd brought a roll of barbed wire with him. Wanted to take him back alive, maybe…wanted to make it hurt.

"Shoulda just brought rope," Tim told him. Grabbing the guy by the hood of his camo jacket, Tim hauled him over to a nearby tree. He was quick, wrapping one wrist in the wire, pulling it around the tree, and wrapping the other. He wouldn't be able to get out of it, and it'd take his buddies a while to pick it off him anyway.

Emptying out the bullets in the old revolver, he dropped that on the Reaver and replaced it with the gun he'd just nicked. He gave the shotgun the same treatment as the revolver – he needed to move fast and light; a shotgun would slow him down – and then ran to where he'd seen Ellie disappear herself.

"We're goin'," he said.

No two ways about it, and this time, Ellie didn't argue.


	9. Chapter 9

"Tim!" Raylan called as he made his way through the woods. He knew that there were three guys out there with guns, but that didn't mean shit next to knowing that Tim was out there, too. Doyle had been right when he'd said there were a lot of woods to cover, and Raylan would have a hard time finding Tim without anything to go on.

"Tim, where the hell are you?"

He heard a creak to his left. The crack of sticks, just barely audible over the pouring rain.

Something told him it wasn't Tim.

The haymaker that came sailing towards him from behind a tree a blink later confirmed the theory.

Raylan grabbed the arm in time to keep from getting hit in the face, pulling it around the tree and using it to wrench its owner from his hiding place. He used the momentum to throw the guy to the ground, only it didn't quite work that way. The guy was  _huge_.

And he was apparently trying to kill Raylan. Good to know.

Raylan didn't quite have time to get his gun out, so it all came down to fists. Now, Raylan was no pushover in a fight, but the guy was easily twice his size, and it was dark, so understandably, he was having some trouble.

The first punch he didn't quite manage to dodge knocked him up against a tree, but he bounced back fast. He threw a punch of his own, catching the big guy square in the nose.

It didn't even seem to stun him.

The guy came at him with fists swinging, and Raylan caught one square in the cheekbone. He felt his teeth grind, felt his brain rattle around in his head for a bit as he hit the ground, but he didn't stay there. He rolled the moment he hit, and it was a damn good thing he did, because a food came down where his head had been only a second before.

He stopped rolling just in time to avoid the bear trap that was lying awful close to his head. In a strike of inspiration, next time that foot came down for his head, he grabbed the ankle and pulled it down over his shoulder, straight onto the bear trap.

He wasn't sure if the trap closing or the guy yowling was louder, but he didn't get much time to consider. While the big guy was occupied, he got himself back on his feet. He was an honorable man, liked to think he was a fair fighter, but there wasn't time for  _fair_  right then. Not with Tim in trouble and this guy twice his size; it already wasn't a fair fight, he was just evening up the odds a little.

Raylan brought a fist about to the guy's ear, ducking out of the way of a club arm that the guy swung wildly at him.

He didn't quite manage to dodge the other arm. It caught him in the side, and he went sprawling, 'cause it was a little like getting caught in the rib by a Mac truck.

He hit the ground, trying to catch the breath that he'd gotten knocked out of him. As he pushed himself back up onto his elbows, though, he saw something he really hadn't been expecting.

The Reaver boy – he was assuming this fella was a Reaver – bent down, and with a bray more fitting on a pissed off bull than a human being, he pried that bear trap clear off his leg.

"Well, shit," Raylan muttered. It took the big guy a second to get himself straight – even a bull like that's gonna take a second to recover after he gets his leg caught in a trap – and Raylan took the chance to get on his own feet.

Good thing, too, because he'd hardly gotten his boots underneath him before two hands the size of his head grabbed hold of the front of his jacket and hauled him forward. He struggled with him for a minute, pushing and twisting, but there's only so much he could do with a man twice his size holding him.

His back hit the tree hard enough to knock a grunt out of him, and he watched the guy smile with teeth that made his stomach roll.

"You another law man?" snarled the big guy.

"Another? You've met my friend, then."

"Friend of the pretty boy's?"

Raylan tried not to wince as a tree trunk of an arm pressed across his chest. He'd thought it was hard to breathe before…the guy's breath was cruel and unusual; this was next to impossible.

Still, he wasn't to be deterred. "You might say that," he said. "Be a good Christian boy and tell me where he is and I might put in a good word for you."

The big guy chuckled, a big, stupid grin on his fat, ugly face.

The man had very few redeeming features.

"Where is he?" he mimicked. "Shoot, he's dead. Stone cold and rotting, just like you're about to be."

Raylan felt something rise in his chest. Fury…ice cold and burning, all at once. His jaw set tight, but he forced a smile of his own. "Take this how you will, but all the times some crook's made a threat on my life…well, I find 'em hard to take real seriously." He saw the big guy start to open his mouth, but beat him to it. "But see, threatening Deputy Gutterson's life…that's something else entirely. Now, if you had half a brain in that oversized head of yours, you'd get down on your belly with your hands in the air and you'd tell me every  _last_  thing you know 'bout where I might find my fellow deputy."

Reaver actually had the brains to look taken aback. Seemed like he wasn't used to his prey turning the threats around on him. Faced with this confusing turn of events, he fell back on what he knew, pulling the knife from his belt and holding it to Raylan's neck.

"Or what, law man?"

"You feel that cold pressure on your chest? It ain't me being happy to see you, if you follow my meaning."

Reaver looked down, and Raylan watched the smile on his face fall as his eyes fell on the gun Raylan had stuck against his chest.

Raylan gave him enough time to see that confusion turn into a furious scowl, to see his hands tighten on the blade, before he squeezed the trigger.

The guy fell back, hitting the ground with a wet, heavy  _thud_. It was hardly the loudest noise he was making, though, howling like he was.

"You shot me!" he cried. "You shot me in the heart!"

Raylan ignored his screams, kneeling down on his gut while he divested him off all his guns and knives and anything else that might prematurely end his life while he pursued his lead. Once he was sure that the guy was clean, he stood up. When the other guy tried to do the same, he dug his boot down into his chest wound.

"You shot my heart," the guy wailed again.

"Shut up," Raylan snapped, training his gun on the guy's head. "Your heart's on the other side. Worst's I clipped a lung, and you seem to have plenty of air to spare. Now, if you don't want me to plug another hole in a place a little more critical, you damn well better answer my questions. Where's Tim?"

"I told you," the Reaver boy groaned. "He's dead!"

"If that were true, you wouldn't be out here trolling for him, now would you?" He dug his heel in a little harder, and got a choked cry for his troubles. Good. He wanted this sick son of a bitch to  _hurt_. "I'm gonna ask you again, and then I'm gonna shoot something off, you little shit: Where's my deputy?"

He watched the man beneath his foot as he writhed and whimpered and made all sorts of undignified sounds, but he wasn't interested in a damn thing that wasn't directions. Finally, though, there was something…sounded a little like words, only it wasn't quite clear.

"What's that? Couldn't quite hear you."

"I said he's headed North!" the Reaver boy finally cried. "Followed his tracks." He started to giggle, though.

"I fail to see what's so funny."

"They're gonna find him," the guy said. "Mackie's up ahead of me, and Paw went 'round the road to head him off. I's heading back to see what the commotion's about. Your boy's prolly already—"

Raylan cut him short with a gun butt to the side of the head. He didn't have time to deal with this fat bastard, but as he ran, he pulled out his phone.

"Rachel!" he shouted over the rain when she finally picked up. He could hardly hear her, but then, he didn't need to hear her, just the other way around. "Found one of the boys. Head straight north. Probably gonna need a paramedic. Send the rest of the search party this way while you're at it; I found Tim's trail."

He heard her say something, and that was plenty for him. He flicked it closed, and he kept running.


	10. Chapter 10

Tim's vision was starting to fade. At first, he'd thought it was all the rain getting in his eyes, but as he'd kept running, he'd started to realize that the dark corners settling in around his line of sight had nothing to do with water.

Of course, it wasn't until his legs started giving out on him that he saw cause for concern. It wasn't until his knees buckled right out from under him and he hit the wet ground hard that he realized things had gone south a lot faster than he'd thought they would. It wasn't until he looked down that he realized his shoulder was bleeding more than he'd thought.

He'd just managed to push himself back up onto his knees when Ellie dropped down beside him.

"Are you okay?" she asked, but he could hear from the panic in her voice that she had already guessed at the answer.

Never one to admit a weakness, Tim nodded. "I'm fine," he said, and somehow, he managed to push himself to his feet. He pretended to look around for a minute while he caught his breath, while he breathed through the pain that threatened to push the black corners in a lot further.

When he was sure the next step wouldn't be a repeat performance, he put a hand on Ellie's slender shoulder and urged her forward.

"We need to keep going," he said.

"You're bleeding," she protested.

Yeah, somewhere between the searing pain and the nearly passing out, the thought  _had_  crossed his mind.

He highly doubted that was the reassuring reply she was looking for, though, so instead he shook his head. "It's fine, just go."

And she did. She started running, and Tim fell in behind her, doing his honest best not to sway like a drunkard as he ran. It took focus…focusing on anything, everything but his own condition. Years of Ranger training came down to this, and he found his mind racing faster than his rubber legs.

That was when he saw it. The broken down branches up ahead, the clearing they'd just wandered into. A hunter's dream. Color him paranoid, but he couldn't bring himself to ignore it.

Especially not when he saw the little red dot on Ellie's gut.

He didn't have time to warn her, didn't have time to speak or think. He acted on instinct, shifting his feet in the wet ground and pushing off to shove his shoulder into Ellie's. He knocked her to the ground, just in time to feel something sharp go tearing through his right thigh. He hit the ground hard, sliding in the mud on his bad shoulder, and he thought he might pass out right then.

Sadly, that wasn't quite an option. There was still Ellie to think about…he couldn't pass out and leave her to fend for herself. And hell, Tim didn't want to die, especially not to these sick fucks. He wasn't gonna be somebody's den decoration, stuffed and mounted like a elk head.

He was gonna show them just what kind of fight an Army Ranger could give.

He was gonna show them just what kind of fight a U.S. Marshal could give.

"Ellie, take cover. Soon as I got his attention, you take off, and you don't stop."

"But—"

He gave her a shove. "Go!"

He didn't wait to see her leave; he pushed himself up onto his good leg, and he started sprinting for all he was worth. Each step felt like a fire running through his leg, but the adrenaline kept him going. His heart was racing so loud he could hardly hear anything else as he ran straight for where he'd seen that shot coming from. If he'd been behind that gun, he knew he'd have been dead by then, but this guy couldn't quite get a train on him.

The guy hardly seemed to know what hit him when Tim tackled him. The rifle he'd been using didn't go with him, and the two of them ended up grappling a couple feet back.

"Ellie, run!" he screamed, fighting desperately to get his hands on the guy's neck. But Deacon wasn't making it easy, and he wasn't fighting fair. He grabbed Tim's shoulder digging his fingers into the wound until Tim saw white, and then he smashed his fist into the side of Tim's face.

Tim went sprawling, scarcely able to think, much less move. He stared up at the sky as the rain fell harder, until something obscured the sky from view.

"Told you you's gonna pay for killing my boys."

Tim couldn't help it. In the face of his own death, a laugh bubbled from his chest. "Shot another," he chuckled, coughing as his voice caught. "Three down…two to go."

"Tough words for a dying man." Deacon knelt down, his eyes going to the gunshot wound on Tim's legs before his lips split in a grin. There was nothing Tim could do to stop him as he pressed his thumb to the wound, digging in until Tim was sure he could feel it on his bone.

The world went white, but he didn't scream. He wouldn't scream, no matter what. If he died – though " _when_  he died" seemed fitting enough – then he was at least gonna die knowing he'd done himself proud. He'd killed two, downed one, and after that call he'd given Raylan, he knew for sure these sick fucks weren't getting away with what he'd done.

Shit…Raylan.

He'd told Raylan…he'd told him he'd try. He kind of liked to think that Raylan cared about him…that this would mean something to him, Tim dying, and hell, give a dying man his little comforts.

This…this wasn't trying. This was rolling over and giving up, no matter how much it hurt and how tired he was. And that just wasn't gonna fly.

He'd fallen on his hand when Deacon hit him, and though the landing hadn't been much to celebrate, he was glad for it now. He managed to get his hand around the grip of the gun in the back of his pants, and even as bile rose in his throat and black spots closed in around his vision, he pulled it out.

He only got one round off. It wasn't a head shot, but he caught the guy in the gut. With any luck, it passed through something vital on its way out. Either way, it got the guy off him. Only problem was, he lost his grip on the gun. His fingers were shaking too bad – he told himself it was blood loss, 'cause Tim didn't  _miss_ , and he didn't drop his damn gun – and the rain had slicked the grip.

"You little bitch!" Deacon roared, driving his boot into Tim's side hard enough to lift him off the ground and send him into a tree.

When he hit the ground, he was smiling.


	11. Chapter 11

Raylan knew he had to be getting close. The road couldn't have been more than a couple miles ahead of him, and unless Tim had been hitchhiking, he couldn't have made it that far. The knot in the base of his stomach kept tightening with every step that he took…with every step that he  _hadn't_ found Tim.

He was almost afraid to, though. He had no idea what he would see. In his heart of hearts, he had to have faith that Tim would be alive and kickin'. He hadn't been making it up when he'd said Tim was a tough little son of a bitch; if anyone could survive out here, it was Tim.

But after that guy…there were two more chasing him. He had to hope Tim hadn't hit the road, because papa bear would be waiting for him, apparently. Then there was the other one that was supposed to be catching up to him. Tim was good, but was he that good?

Raylan had no choice but to believe that he was, because the only other alternative…

No. He was gonna find him, and he was gonna find him alive. There were no two ways about it, no if's, and's, or but's.

His heart rose into his throat when he caught sight of movement ahead. It was too big to be a fox, or even a deer, and moving too fast.

But then it fell when he realized that it wasn't Tim, either. It was a girl; he recognized the face, older as it was. Eleanor Higgins.

She shrieked when she saw him, but he managed to catch her about the arms when she all but ran into him.

"Stop it! Calm down!" Normally, he would've been a little more gentle, but he was working on a time limit, and her feelings were the least of his concern. Only, when she got to rambling, he had no choice but to listen.

"Thank God," she cried, her body nearly doubling over with her hysterics. "He was—they were chasing us. Back there—I was so scared! That deputy, he—"

"He what? Where's the deputy?"

"He saved me," Eleanor said, her voice hardly more than an incomprehensible wail. "That man, he was there and I was running. He just shoved me and told me to run, and I ran."

Raylan was starting to lose patience he didn't have. "Eleanor!" he snapped, and finally, he knew he had her attention. Her saucer-dish eyes were fixed on him like he was the Messiah himself. "Where is the deputy?"

She almost broke down right there, but Raylan gave her a shake that seemed to keep her on point. "Back there," she said, waving her hand back the direction she'd come from. En "He told me to run, and I did, and he ran at that man. He was—"

"Eleanor, I need you to stay here. Police are coming, so you hold tight and send some my way when they do."

And with that, he turned and ran off the way she'd pointed. Tim was up ahead, she'd said, and not far it didn't seem like.

Raylan ran like he'd never run before, ducking low branches and jumping over roots like a damn Olympian, and all the while willing himself to run just a little faster until at last, he could make out more shapes.

There was just the one, though, standing up ahead in a small clearing. Just the one, and he was too big to be Tim. He had a hand outstretched…Raylan knew a pointed gun when he saw it.

He barely even broke stride, reaching into his holster and pulling his gun around on the big guy in the camo just a few yards ahead. One bang, and the bastard dropped like a rock.

Raylan didn't stop until he was nearly on top of the guy, and then it was only to make sure he was dead.

The hole in the side of his head was good enough for Raylan.

He heard a noise, then, and he turned quickly to see another figure. The one the gun had been pointed at, struggling to push himself up against the base of the tree. And even covered in mud and rain, even bloody with torn clothes and messy hair, Raylan knew in an instant who it was.

"Tim," he breathed. His legs were moving faster than his mind could command them, carrying him over to the younger man. He dropped down next to him, his knees sliding in the mud as he reached for him.

Only…he paused, when Tim flinched back from him. Head reared back against the tree, he regarded Raylan with eyes like a wounded dog that'd been caught in a trap. Raylan reached for him again, and a strangled sort of sound broke from Tim's throat, his nose flaring as his hands struggled for purchase in the muddy ground.

Raylan knew what it was…or, at least, what he thought it was, though he couldn't decide if it was for better or worse. The pallor of his skin, the way he shook…that far-off look in his eyes…well, he'd spent long enough at Glencoe to've learned the tell-tale signs of shock.

He had to try and calm him down. He told himself that it was medically necessary, but he knew…he just wanted Tim not to be so scared.

"Tim…" he said gently, scooting in just a little bit closer. All his movements were slow, so as not to spook him. "Tim, it's me. It's Raylan. I'm not gonna hurt you." But he wasn't going to sit there, either. He moved fast this time, wrapping his arms around Tim and pulling him away from the tree and against his chest as carefully as he could manage.

At first, Tim resisted. He pushed and shoved and did his God's honest best, but he could hardly move, and Raylan held firm. "You're okay. You're safe...I've got you, now…I've got you."

After a long moment, Tim seemed to come around. His chest still heaved, but his hands, instead of pushing away from Raylan, started to fist in his jacket. He had yet to really relax, though.

"Raylan," Tim finally said, almost frenetically, his voice catching as his chest heaved for breath he didn't seem to be able to take. "There's a girl, Raylan. Ellie, she—"

"She's fine," Raylan said. As he spoke, he shrugged out of his Marshal jacket and pulled it around Tim's shoulders. It wouldn't do much, but if Tim really was going into shock, he needed to keep him warm. "I need you to tell me where you're hurt, okay?"

Tim nodded, but he seemed to have a hard time focusing. His eyes were everywhere, when they weren't closed; his head kept jerking at the slightest sound, like he was still on alert. Raylan didn't doubt that he was.

It didn't matter; Raylan was good at reading clues. He'd already seen the make-shift bandage tied around Tim's shoulder, and could follow the rip in his shirt that came out from under it to see the cut that ran down his chest. But then, he looked down to where Tim's hands had fallen since he took off his jacket, and found the real cause for concern.

He'd been shot.

"Jesus," he hissed, sitting up on his knees so that he could get to the bottom of his shirt to rip off a long strip. "Move your hands."

Tim looked up at him, his shaking hands gripping tighter on his leg.

"Tim, move your damn hands! I need to stop the bleeding." He didn't mean to be so harsh with him, but he was starting to panic. The blood on Tim's shoulder would've been enough to worry him; this was a helluva lot worse.

Tim pulled his hands back a little, just enough for Raylan to get the strip of fabric around underneath his leg. "This'll hurt," he warned. Gritting his teeth, he jerked the bandage tight.

A choked sound – a scream, Raylan could tell, bit back because Tim really was a tough little son of a bitch – broke from Tim's throat, his fingers digging into his leg above the bandage as Raylan finished wrapping the rest of the fabric around it.

As soon as he was finished, Raylan took Tim's hands from his leg, holding them in one of his own as he pulled Tim back against his chest. Tim's shaking had doubled, and he hugged him close, trying his best to keep him warm.

"I need some help over here!" he shouted. The others couldn't be that far behind him. Surely they would be close by now.

"Fine," Tim choked out, the shivers so bad he could hardly get a word out between his chattering teeth. "I'm fine."

"Damn straight," Raylan said, but he held him tighter all the same.

"It was a thing a' beauty, though…wish you'da seen it," Tim continued. He looked up at Raylan, his head falling back against Raylan's shoulder and his split lip pulling into a weak, dazed grin. "I got three."

Because of course, that'd be what Tim's mind would wander its way back to.

He donned a smile of his own, looking around for signs of flashlights or footsteps. He knew he hadn't been running that fast. As he searched, he spoke, and if he sounded a little distracted, Tim didn't seem to notice.

"And I got the other two," he said, "so it seems to me we got ourselves the royal flush." His breath caught as Tim grimaced. The shaking was getting worse… _Raylan's_  teeth were nearly chattering just from holding him.

But Tim was still smiling. "Raylan?" he asked after a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Don't take this the wrong way…" He shifted. Winced. Settled. Shivered. "…but there's something seriously wrong with your hometown."

Raylan chuckled. "And here I thought the hillbilly lunatics were one of its  _winning_  features."

With a noise that sounded a little like a snort, maybe like a laugh, Tim fell quiet again.

A few seconds passed by in silence, each ticking by like an hour.

"What the hell's keeping them?" Raylan thought aloud, but Tim didn't seem to hear him; or if he did, he didn't say anything.

Just when Raylan was starting to get worried – he didn't want Tim passing out or falling asleep on him – Tim stirred again.

"Raylan?"

This exchange was getting a little too familiar.

"Yeah?"

"How'd you find me?"

Raylan thought for a moment. "Honestly?" he asked.

"No," Tim muttered dryly. "Lie to me."

Raylan could hear the edge of pain in his voice, but there was a sort of tired humor there too. He decided to focus on the latter…it made him feel better. That question, though…how had he found Tim? Really, it hadn't been much more than a guess. A gut feeling.

He shrugged. "Shot in the dark."

"Shot in the dark…" Tim repeated thoughtfully.

"I could tell you I felt you in my heart of hearts, if that's what you want to hear."

Another sorta-laugh. Really more of a cough this time, and Raylan really didn't care for the way it rattled in the younger man's chest.

"Nah," he said. "First's more like you. You don't do  _pretty_." As he spoke, Raylan noticed his hand going for the make-shift bandage on his leg.

He intercepted Tim's hand before he could. "You don't need to fidget with that."

"Don't see my  _fidgeting's_  gonna do much harm."

"Humor me."

Tim humored him. His hand disappeared back into the confines of Raylan's jacket, probably gone to hold the cut on his chest.

Raylan didn't have the heart to fuss at him again.

Instead, he changed the subject entirely. "My turn," he said. "You got a question…now I get one."

Tim's head lolled a little. Raylan told himself he did it on purpose…for effect. "Fire away, boss."

"Why'd you call me? Out of anyone else?"

"Why d'you think?"

Actually, Raylan could think of plenty of reasons. Logical, completely  _un_ satisfying reasons: no extensions to go through for him, he tended to answer the phone, Tim happened to know his number.

"I asked  _you_ , remember?"

Tim nodded, but only barely. He seemed to think for a moment, but finally… "Knew you'd come."

He said it like it was simple. Like that was all Raylan needed to understand his thinking.

It wasn't. "But why?" Raylan pressed, his stomach twisting itself into knots as Tim's eyes started to slide closed. He wasn't gonna last much longer…those bastards needed to hurry.

"Dunno," Tim said. Raylan could hardly hear him, his voice was so quiet and half-slurred to boot. Still, Tim had that damn smile on his face, even as his eyes slid closed. "Call it a shot in the dark."


	12. Chapter 12

Waking up was a lot harder than Tim was used to. After Ranger School – hell, after growing up with his bastard of an old man – he was used to coming to and that being that.

This took a fair bit longer.

It was the fuzzy bit that was the worst. It was like someone had scraped out all his insides and stuffed him back with feathers or lead: he couldn't tell which, cause at the same time he felt like a strong wind would blow him away and that he'd never move again.

Either way, coming to took some doing. Getting his eyes opened and focused enough, getting the rest of his body to fall in line right…well, he managed, but it was a hell of a lot harder than it should have –

Creak.

Tim's heart stopped in his chest. He knew that sound. It was…that was his door. Why was that his door? Last he remembered, he…no…wait…

Christ, he needed to get his shit together.

He was at home in his bed, and there was someone else in his home, too. That was the problem; that was all he needed to know. There was someone there, and he was laid out flat. If they got there, he'd be screwed.

_Nasty teeth and a nastier smile. Bodies hanging from the ceiling, their guts spilled out all over. Gunshots. Running. Helpless._

Bang.

Tim's head snapped towards the sound. That was his door again. Closing.

Shit.

His hand went for his bedside table of its own accord, to the drawer, to the  _gun_  that was inside it.

Only it wasn't. When he got the drawer open, got to rifling around in it with quick, desperate hands, he came up shit out of luck. No gun. No protection.

But he had others. Other guns, better hidden. One for them to find, after all, a dozen or so for him to keep. He just had to get up, had to get to them.

Easier said than done.

White hot pain exploded in his leg the moment he tried to move it. Whatever it was muddling up his head could only dull so much out of focus; he'd apparently found the point where stuff started stabbing through. He had to keep going, though. The floorboards were creaking, now.

_Heavy boots on old wood. Leaves snapping. They were after him. They were coming for him._

He was standing. The adrenaline was helping with the pain, but not enough to keep the black from closing in around the corners of his vision. He had half a mind to hurl, half a mind to pass out, but instinct kept him moving forward. There was a crutch propped on the wall next to the bed, and he grabbed it under his good arm. The other was in a sling, but he could move the fingers well enough. The problem wasn't with his arm, anyhow; it was with his shoulder. The burning there, the same one that stretched all the way up his chest.

A breathless curse escaped through his gritted teeth. It hurt. Fuck, it hurt.

_People mounted along the wall. Posing corpses. 'Admiring my work, rat?'_

He was moving. The desperate frenzy in his head was almost enough to force the pain out of the forefront. Anything was better than getting caught. Anything was better than getting gutted and stuffed by inbred freaks.

Tim was good under pressure. Damn good; anyone that knew him would tell someone that.

It freaked him the hell out when he saw his hand shaking as he went for the dresser drawer. His hands didn't shake. He didn't miss, and his hands didn't shake, and he didn't  _get trapped_. It was his job to handle pressure.

But he was so fucking  _scared_.

It only got worse when his search of the dresser turned up nothing. Just clothes and ties and shit that wouldn't do much but make him look nice when they buried his ass. If they buried his ass. Maybe he'd spend the rest of eternity in some freak's basement until he rotted too much to show off.

His stomach flipped at the thought, and he felt something rising in his throat that he couldn't tell was just nerves or straight up vomit.

He was in the hall. Limping. Shaking. But damned if he wasn't determined.

A painting in the hall. A shit ton of horses running in a field. Generally, Tim was pretty fond of the thing; now he was just after what it was hiding.

Balancing as well as he could with the crutch under his armpit, he reached his good arm for the back of the painting. Felt around. Panicked.

Cold metal. Relief.

When he pulled his hand back, there was a knife in it. Nothing impressive – a switchblade number with the Ranger crest engraved on the handle – but it was something. He was good with knives, anyhow. Better with a gun, but he'd never seen a gift horse's tongue before, and he wasn't gonna look for it, now.

"What in the hell—?"

The voice sounding behind him scared the ever-loving shit out of Tim, and he went to turn his knife on its owner. He realized, though, as soon as he shifted his weight, that he'd made a big mistake.

As the crutch slipped from under his arm and the world pitched him sideways, Tim knew there was nothing he could do but wait to hit the floor.

Thud.


	13. Chapter 13

Thud.

The crutch just barely missed Raylan as it fell. Not that he cared; the crutch wasn't the only thing falling, and it was the other floor-bound figure that he was worried about.

Sheer reflex had him moving forward the same time he put his arm out, and it was those reflexes he thanked – and a couple of gods, for that matter – when he managed to catch Tim around the waist and chest in an awkward sort of half-hug. He wasn't entirely sure if the grunt that came out of Tim's mouth right after was more pain or surprise, but he was quick to try to get a better hold on him, pulling Tim back against his chest by his hips so that he could let go of his shoulder.

It would've worked a lot better if Tim hadn't immediately tried to throw an elbow at him.

The hand that he'd had on his shoulder went immediately to hooking around his arm, pulling it behind his back with just enough force to hold him still and (hopefully) not enough to bust the line of stitches running what felt like half a mile down his chest.

"Hey, hey, easy" he said, pulling Tim a little closer by the hand around his hips – he didn't dare pull his arm any tighter; those stitches of his could only handle so much – when he gave another jerk trying to turn himself loose. "It's just me, Tim. It's just me."

With the way he was holding him, Raylan couldn't see Tim's face. He didn't need to, though, to know when he started to relax. He felt it, as all of Tim's too-tense muscles relaxed a little bit. Not all the way, though; he was having to fight too hard to keep himself upright. "There you go," he said. "Come on, let's get you back to bed." And he started to get him headed that direction, starting with kicking the crutch up off the floor so that he could give Tim something else to hold him up.

Only, Tim started pushing himself back. "No," he said.

Raylan stopped short. Moving Tim would be hard enough if he had Tim's cooperation; he wasn't going to try if Tim was resisting, for Tim's good and his own. Besides, he wasn't Tim's warden. If he didn't want to go back to his bedroom, then Raylan would at least hear him out on why.

"No?"

Tim shook his head, only to let out a soft groan. The knot on the back of his head was still giving him fits, and when he started to tip over, Raylan took that as his cue to start getting Tim somewhere he could get him horizontal. Just as he started steering him towards the bedroom again, though, Tim grabbed his arm.

"I'm sick of the bedroom," Tim said.

Raylan quirked an eyebrow. "Never thought I'd hear those words coming out of your mouth."

"You're a hoot." The snark in Tim's voice was offset by the reedy strain. He was hurting; Raylan could tell. He was hurting bad. Raylan needed to get him off his leg and get some painkillers in him, preferably after some food.

"Okay, not the bedroom," Raylan said. "How about the living room, then? Pop in one of those movies you're so fond of and have ourselves a party. Sound good?"

"Yeah," Tim said through gritted teeth. "Sounds good."

Raylan figured he probably would've gone with the laundry room at that point, if it meant getting off his leg. Having been shot before himself, Raylan could respect the notion, and he started Tim for the living room so that hopefully, he could get him sitting down before he fell down.

"Easy does it," Raylan said as he helped Tim down the hall. He was on Tim's bad side, the one with the sling, holding him by his hips while Tim used the crutch to balance it out on the other side. "Almost there. Just keep one foot on front of the other, okay? You're almost there."

Tim's head dipped tersely in as close to a nod as Raylan figured he could give. He was breathing a hell of a lot harder than someone should've been just walking a couple of yards down the hall, but then, most "someone"s hadn't been carved like a Thanksgiving turkey from shoulder to hip and shot in the leg. Frankly, Raylan was amazed Tim was still moving as well as he was. And what's more, for all the pain Raylan knew he had to be in, he didn't say a damn thing. Not a single complaint. Nothing.

It was like Raylan had said all along: Tim Gutterson was a tough little son of a bitch. And what's more, he was  _Raylan's_  tough little son of a bitch.

It wasn't until about a half hour later that Raylan was reminded that even someone tough and crazy and all around  _impossible_  as Tim had his limits.

He'd been in the kitchen getting some soup – chicken noodle microwaved from a can, 'cause hell, that was about where his cooking skills topped out – and he was just coming back with a bowl of it in one hand, a glass of water in the other, and a bottle of pills in the pocket of his jeans.

A part of him was relieved to find Tim still stretched out on the couch, hand over his face and breath coming a lot more regularly than before. He hadn't  _really_  thought the guy would go anywhere, but Tim always was a little stir crazy, even back in the hospital when he'd been in worse shape than this.

Granted in the hospital, he'd had better pain meds than this, too. Hell of a lot easier to push his limits when he was high as a kite.

But no, Tim was still on the sofa where he was supposed to be, stretched out with his ankle propped up on the leg of the couch to keep his thigh elevated, as per doctor's orders.

"Dinner's served," he said as he walked in, sitting the bowl on an old gun magazine on the table and the glass on a coaster. He was working on pulling the table a little closer to the sofa when the silence started striking him as odd. Tim was a quiet fella, but he wasn't  _that_  quiet. He'd have made some sort of noise, if only one of his little grunts.

"Tim, you awake?"

No answer.

He turned back around to the sofa. "Tim, are you—" He stopped, his heart dropping into the pit of his gut. "Jesus Christ."

He hadn't noticed when he came in; Tim's hand had been over his eyes. But now it was over his mouth, tensed so hard it shook just like the rest of him. There were tears in his eyes, streaming down his cheeks as he stared up at the ceiling.

Tim was crying.

But what's worse – he was trying, Christ but he was trying, to keep it all back. Like a levee on the business end of a hurricane: bound to break, but fighting it for all it was worth.

Raylan turned the rest of the way around in a hurry, sitting up on his knees next to the couch. "Tim, what—" Raylan went to move his hand, but Tim shrugged him off.

"I'm fine."

It would've been easier to buy if his voice hadn't caught, and Raylan wasn't gonna be blocked out so easy. "Don't lie to me," he said, wrapping his fingers through Tim's and pulling his hand from his face altogether, curling it in his own larger hand. "You've got nothing you've gotta hide."

And there went the levee.

The first sob came the moment Tim's hand was gone, and it went downhill from there. They were harsh enough to wrack his whole form, and Tim started trying to sit up, to curl in on himself, but Raylan intercepted him.

"Hey, come here," he said, sliding in behind him on the couch as carefully as he could and pulling him close. He held him, firm as he dared, and Tim held on all of half a second before he broke down. As Raylan wrapped his arms around him, Tim turned into Raylan's shoulder. It was all the turning he could do, being in the shape he was, but it was enough that Raylan couldn't see his face, and Raylan figured that was the whole point.

Not that it mattered. He didn't need to see his face to feel his pain. He could feel it in every shake of his shoulders, in every pound of pressure in Tim's grip on his arm, in every drop of moisture that seeped through the grey cotton of his t-shirt. Even if Tim didn't make a sound – seemed he dealt with this kind of pain the same way he dealt with the other kind: silently – Raylan knew.

Raylan had never been the kind to get uncomfortable with silence, though, and it seemed to him that there weren't really any words for this sort of thing. What did you say to comfort someone after something like this?

You didn't.

You didn't say a damn thing, and Raylan didn't. He and Tim had never really been about words, anyhow. It was more about understanding, about presence, and Raylan knew now that the best thing he could do for his lover was to make him understand that he was  _there_. That he was there, and that Tim was safe.

And after God only knew how long, after the soup went cold and the water went warm, when Tim finally got himself together enough to put words together, he listened.

"I thought…" Tim's voice was muffled by Raylan's shoulder, but Tim never exactly crystal clear when he was speaking, anyhow. Raylan had gotten pretty good at sorting through the mumbled bits.

Tim didn't seem to care much for it, though. He straightened up as best he could, wedging his good shoulder in between two of the cushions on the back of the couch to hold himself up. He forced out a chuckle that sounded to Raylan a little too much like one of the choked-back sobs he'd heard before. "The door…for a second, I thought…" His voice kept catching, and he couldn't seem to finish the thought.

Raylan finished it for him. "You thought I was one of them," he said. The realization made him frown. That was why Tim had been so bent when he'd first caught him in the hall. "You thought I was one of the Reavers."

Dragging the back of his hand across his eyes, Tim gave a sad sort of one-sided shrug. "The thought  _had_  crossed my mind."

"Did more than cross it, it looked like."

Tim bristled, and Raylan knew he was fixing to get the earful that had been months in coming. "Well, what the hell was I supposed to think, Raylan? Sure as hell didn't think it'd be you."

Still, seemed knowing it was coming didn't do anything to ease his temper. It stung, hearing that Tim didn't think he'd stay. He'd spent every hour of his day at the hospital that he hadn't spent at the office dealing with the bastards that had done this to  _his_  Tim. And Tim just thought he'd leave him? "You think I was just gonna bring you home and that'd be that?"

Tim's face was turning red, the fingers of his good hand twisting into a fist around the blue fabric of his UK basketball shorts. "I wasn't your problem anymore!"

"You were never my problem!"

Tim flinched.

Raylan froze.

Shit, he hadn't meant to shout like that. Hadn't meant to raise his voice or lose his temper. He was supposed to be making Tim feel safe, not giving him something else to be afraid of.

"I'm sorry," he said, and the words felt foreign on his tongue. Tim Gutterson didn't miss, and Raylan Givens didn't apologize. Not for just anybody. Not for just any reason.

Frowning, he tried to get his shit back together. Figure out what he wanted to say before he opened his big mouth again.

Easier said than done.

It took a good long bit of silence in which Raylan finally got a good idea of what people meant by "uncomfortable silence" before he finally managed to figure out just what it was he wanted to say and how to say it without hopefully making himself look like more of an ass than he already had.

"Tim, I'm not just gonna leave you here by yourself. And even if I  _could_  in good conscience, which I can't, I wouldn't  _want_  to. I didn't keep coming by the hospital, spending the night in that hard ass plastic chair, 'cause I liked the scenery. I did it 'cause I wanted to be there for you." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I still do. I want to be here for you, and I don't want to leave you alone."

As much as he wanted to keep on, to say everything running through his head, he could tell by the look on Tim's face that he needed to give him a second to sort through what he'd already said. Tim was generally pretty quick on the uptake, but a week on heavy-duty painkillers was bound to gum up even some of the best-oiled machines, and there was no point in saying what he had to say if Tim couldn't process it.

But finally, the gears got turning, and comprehension slowly started to spread across Tim's still-red face. "You spent the night at the hospital?"

Raylan could've smacked him. All that, and that was what he wanted to know? But no, he forced himself to calm down. No more losing his temper. Small steps.

"Yeah," he said. "Every night."

"And you…you're uh…you're staying here, too?" Was that hope Raylan saw in those baby blues? "I mean, while I'm laid out and all."

Smiling patiently, Raylan nodded. "Already cleared the time off with Art."

And Tim, God save him, looked genuinely surprised. Happy, but  _really_  just confused out of his damn mind. "Why?" he said. "Why would you do that?"

"Let's just say I'm fond of the company. And Tim?"

"Huh?"

Raylan fixed Tim with the moist pointed, dubious expression he could muster. "Did you  _really_  think I was one of them?"

The prod was meant to be lighthearted, and Tim took it that way, giving half a sheepish shrug. "Well, just 'cause you're paranoid…"

"Doesn't mean someone's not out to get you." Raylan nodded. "But to be fair, just 'cause someone's out to get you, doesn't mean they will."

Tim turned his head as best he could, eyebrow raised as well as the still-healing cut on his brow would allow. "Oh yeah?"

Again, Raylan nodded. "Yeah."

"And how's that?"

"'Cause," Raylan said, cupping a hand to Tim's lightly-stubbled cheek, "you got me to protect you."

Tim swallowed thickly, almost nervously, but he leaned into the touch just the same. "That right?" he said.

Raylan smiled. "That's right. And you know why?"

This time, though, when Tim opened his mouth, Raylan cut him off with a kiss. Nothing rough, nothing desperate…just smooth and warm and  _real_. Because if he'd learned anything over the past week, it was that there was more between him at Tim than fire and friction.

"'Cause I love you, idiot."

**Author's Note:**

> Really appreciate comments and kudos. Thankin' you kindly.


End file.
